Forced Endurance
by tearsofamiko
Summary: --There's no Justice. There's just us.-- A study of what lies between a city and perdition. No slash, largely Bruce-centric, featuring only Nolan-verse characters.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Forced Endurance

Author: Tearsofamiko

Rating: K+

Disclaimer: I own nothing about _Batman Begins_ or _The Dark Knight_, their characters or plotlines, including any recognizable dialogue.

Spoilers: Definite for both movies.

Summary: _"__There's no Justice. There's just us__."_ -- Terry Pratchett. A study of what lies between a city and perdition. (I saw where Bovineorbitor1 used the quote in one of her chapters and liked it as a summary. :) I couldn't think of anything else.)

A/N: This is just to tide myself over until White Collar's back. Don't expect too much of it or my new infatuation. :)

Along the same lines as 'Pieces of Eight,' meaning it's a series of drabbles based on one-word prompts. I will only feature characters from the Chris Nolan movies or minor OCs (in other words, no Catwoman, Robin, or any of the other Batman-series characters, not even their alter-egos); I don't know anything about the comics leading up to the movies, so I'm not going to make a fool of myself. No slash and very few 'ships (only those mentioned in canon). And these'll probably all be Bruce/Batman centered and very serious, because I have a hard enough time writing humor and these movies _are_ serious. :)

"And...here...we...go!"

:)

.:::.

**1. Ring**

When he thinks back to that night, he shies away from any memories of the actual event. He knows the facts, has lived the horror, and understands that it is a very integral part of him. He knows all this, but can_not_ bring himself to focus on the murders themselves. Instead, when he thinks about that night, he remembers the little things.

(How the cruel sound of the gunshot seemed to echo forever off the walls around him.

The strange glow of the blood-stained pearls scattered around the alley.

The single, tiny star just barely visible overhead, glittering faintly in the clouds above the city.

How he couldn't stop shivering in the too-warm office the policemen placed him in later.

The way the light glinted off the simple gold wedding band worn by a compassionate officer, the only one to look past the cumbersome new label _orphaned Wayne heir_ and see the terrified, hurting child underneath.

The warmth of Alfred's hands as he picked him up and carried him out of the precinct, an action so reminiscent of his father that he finally, _finally_ felt the tears burn his eyes.)

He remembers the little things and, somehow, they are what anchor the memories, what make everything feel real, what remind him that it was never just a nightmare.

.:::.

**2. Hero**

"_He's the hero Gotham deserves, but not the one it needs right now. So we'll hunt him because he can take it. Because he's not our hero. He's a silent guardian, a watchful protector. A dark knight."_

For the first time in his life, Jimmy Gordon doesn't agree with his dad.

It's not that his dad has said anything wrong, exactly -- even Jimmy can recognize that his father's logic is inherently correct. But he _can't_ believe that the Batman is anything _but_ a hero. Because Jimmy knows what a hero is.

A hero is someone who does the right thing, all the time, no matter what he wants. A hero is kind and honest and helpful. A hero never hurts an innocent person, only the bad guys. A hero is strong, not just in body but in mind, able to withstand everything the world throws at him. And Batman is _everything_ a hero is; Jimmy's seen it, heard it in the crusader's gruff voice.

He wonders why no one else does.

.:::.

**3. Memory**

Something in the way Bruce is standing at the window is familiar, Lucius thinks to himself as he steps into the boardroom. It's in the set of his shoulders, the confident way he holds himself, and the distracted, contemplative expression on his face as he stares down at the city. He pauses for a moment, studying the scene, then finally realizes what's so familiar about it all.

In this moment, he looks exactly as his father did, twenty years ago.

He wonders if the younger man ever sees it, how similar he and Thomas Wayne are. But then, Bruce might be too close to the matter to be able to observe objectively, too many memories and forgotten hopes and dreams blotting out the simple reality of the matter. Bruce Wayne _is_ his father's son. In his determination to save Gotham from itself, his love for the blighted city, his dedication and drive and willpower, he proves himself the capable recipient of his father's mantle. And with his skills, his loyalty, his ability to shoulder far more than an ordinary man could handle, he paves his own way, cleaving through the layers of grim and corruption coating the city's fair face. He is Gotham's incorruptible champion, the only one willing to stand for her honor, his father's son and so much more.

Lucius thinks Thomas would be proud.

.:::.

**4. Box**

Since the Joker's reign of terror, the penthouse echoes like a tomb each time Bruce takes off into the night. To keep himself from going crazy in the resounding silence of the glass-enclosed spaces, Alfred occupies his time cataloguing the box of items recovered from the immolated Wayne Manor, sifting through the artifacts and memories to keep his mind off of the many-varied ways his reckless charge could find danger on Gotham's streets.

With reverent fingers, he reaches into the cardboard confines and pulls out a tarnished silver picture frame. It's warped, the original shape of the silver deformed by the heat of the blaze, the glass bubbled and browned. Ignoring the slight tremor in his hands, he gently polishes away the soot and grime, revealing a delicately filigreed design along the edges and his heart clenches as he realizes exactly which frame has survived the fire. Peering closely, he slowly begins to make out the photograph barely visible behind the tainted glass.

Badly discolored and almost completely faded, but just discernable are Thomas and Martha Wayne's smiling faces. In his mind's eye, Alfred sees the picture as it was: the affectionate way Thomas' arm wraps around his wife's waist, the gentle glow present as always in Martha's eyes, the sense of quiet love and grace and royalty that surrounded the family almost tangible behind the glass of the frame. Squinting slightly, he's just able to make out the shadows and voids in the picture, ghosts of the image once imprinted on the paper. Sighing, he sets the frame aside, deciding he'll take it to Lucius and see if there's anything to be done with it.

With an aching heart, he digs back into the past as he waits for the future to return.

.:::.

**5. Run**

The day is bright and beautiful, shaded golden by the bright sunlight of a spring day. It's warm, but not hot, the perfect temperature for adventure and mischief, the perfect day to play outside.

She's running, the exhilarating feel of adrenaline and excitement flowing through her as she flies over the manicured lawn, heading for the corners of the estate and the mysteries of the greenhouse. She hears him behind her, panting just as she is, the _thud_ of his footsteps barely audible in the thick grass. They duck into the greenhouse, the smells and colors nearly overwhelming in their foreign brilliance. Their game continues within the bright, warm, living alcove they've discovered, entrancing in the way that only a children's game can be. She ducks behind a row of flowers, giggling softly at the expression on his face as she disappears, and then--

A crack breaks through the clear daylight and a shiver runs through her at the ominous portent held within the sound. She stands in the sudden gloom, the beauty of the greenery no more, the sinister echoes of the city streets filling the air with cloying darkness. She begins to run again, a different emotion driving her feet, driving her away from the stately house and resplendent grounds, driving her to seek safety in the dingy streets of the city proper. There is a clatter behind her and she looks down to see a single pearl roll past, the dark stains on it unmistakably blood. She feels a scream building in her throat as she sees the broken bodies haloed by streetlight. She meets the haunted eyes of the child kneeling next to them and feels terror and guilt and shame take her over as she bolts straight upright out of sleep.

Panting, the bedclothes clutched to her chest, Rachel can't help but cry for the small child of her memories and the haunted man that roams the same streets that made him.


	2. Chapter 2

Same disclaimer applies.

My goodness, but I want the soundtrack to the movies... Luckily, Pandora is more than willing to supply me with tracks to whet my appetite and inspire my writing. Yay for free Internet radio!

Mostly Bruce-centered this time, guys. Hope that's not too much of a hardship for you. :)

Notes: In #7, I just guessed on Loeb's rank; I know nothing about how police promotions would sequence, so I have no idea how to correctly count backward. And, #7 happens before #6, but doesn't necessarily connect. #8 is set after TDK, and is surprisingly long (and, BTW, I love Gordon. :3 Big favorite of mine. Okay, I'll quit monologuing now.).

.:::.

**6. Hurricane**

His first night on the streets and the night air is cloying and heavy as he perches on a rooftop, studying the ground below. He hadn't planned any particular route, focused mainly on grasping the ins and outs of his new persona, trying to fill in as many details as possible, while learning the pulse of the city's heartbeat. He supposes it's only fitting he ended up here, though, staring down at the alley that started it all.

The city has changed since then, the streets choked with refuse and squalor, the buildings rundown and shabby. Even the old opera house, now converted into a movie theatre, has seen better days, its old, ornate beauty forever changed in the wake of his parents' murders. Shreds of memories cling like fog to the bricks around him -- the soft echoes of parental amusement, the gentle touch of a mother's concerned hands, the heartfelt, heartbroken plea of a dying father (_"...don't be afraid..."_) -- and he clenches his jaw at the swell of emotion behind them.

The sound of squealing metal garners his attention as a young couple eases out of the theatre's side door and into the dim alley. He's transfixed by this sudden turn of events, so alarmingly similar to his thoughts, that he doesn't notice the intruders at first. It takes the woman's terrified gasp and the sudden flurry of tense movements and, as the streetlights glint off multiple points of dull steel-gray, he feels something within him shift and in that moment, he begins to understand. In that moment, more completely than he'd ever thought would be possible, he becomes what he needs to be.

His anger is raw, elemental, and he channels it into his actions, uses it as effectively as any of his weapons. He doesn't think, just acts, instinct and training combining into a deadly force to be reckoned with. He moves with all the grace and fury of a hurricane, his dark eyes the vortex at the center. The thugs never know what hit them as, one by one, he lays them out on the pavement.

.:::.

**7. Wings**

"_Blackbird singing in the dead of night, Take these broken wings and learn to fly, All your life, You were only waiting for this moment to arise."_

He remembers the child, the bright-eyed boy that laughed and danced and talked to anything that stood still long enough. He remembers summer days and the gleeful shrieks of childhood amusement, scented green and lush and promising by the thick warm grass of the Manor's grounds. He remembers hide-and-seek and tag and finder's-keeper's, games encompassing every room in the house and extending to include the rolling lawns and outbuildings. And he remembers the terrified cries of a little girl as she runs for an adult, screaming the heart-stopping words _Bruce_ and _fell_ and _old well_.

After that the memories are a little darker, the boy's laughing eyes more solemn after his first taste of real fear. The games are subdued, kept within the house and front lawn, with no more exploring or adventures. There's clinging need now and nightmares and screams about bats in the middle of the night. And the parents hush and comfort and indulge and he wonders if they've noticed the changes in their son. Then, there's the phone call, the life-changing, earth-shattering, heart-rending phone call, filled with detached, authoritative voices (_"Mr. Pennyworth? This is Captain Loeb, with the Gotham PD. I'm sorry to inform you that..."_) and two broken, emotion-drenched syllables that re-write his entire life: _"Alfred?"_ The memories blur after that and he doesn't try to force them into any real kind of focus.

Standing in the shadows of the cavern, he watches with quiet concern as the creature takes shape. With each piece of the costume, the shadows wrap themselves closer around his charge, hiding him and changing him until nothing of the broken child or rebuilt man remains. And as the soft, fluid swirl of the cape settles on shoulders bearing an entire city's pain and sadness, he's reminded of a day from his own childhood, when an injured blackbird allowed him close enough to feel the sleek softness of his feathers. Closing his eyes against the brush of the memory, he doesn't see the newly incarnated guardian leave, the folds of his cloak spread like wings behind an avenging angel.

.:::.

**8. Cold**

He pulls his coat tighter around his body, shoving his hands deep into his pockets to try to conserve some kind of body-heat. He glances warily at every nearby shadow, his breath condensing with each exhale as he begins to lose his fight with his impatience. Granted, they have no set times, no appointments, but it would be reassuring -- what with the city-wide manhunt and everything -- to speak occasionally.

He leans against the brick wall opposite his apartment, staring up at the cheery glow from the kitchen window. It's tempting to just give the evening up for lost and head to bed, where Barbara's warm weight will hopefully be enough -- _please God let her presence, safe in his arms, be enough_ -- to keep the nightmares away. Rolling his head against the bricks behind him, he sighs because he knows he won't go in just yet, not when there's still a chance _he_ will show up. He glances down at his watch and shivers, wishing he'd thought to start a pot of coffee before coming out. Then, feeling more than seeing, he suddenly realizes he's not alone anymore and straightens with forced casualness.

"Long night?" he asks lightly, staring at the kitchen window. The shadows to his right coalesce into the vague shape of a man and Gordon feels something in his chest unclench at this proof that Gotham's defender is still whole and able. After all, there are only so many ways the Police Commissioner can play both sides of the fence before people get suspicious and there had been an uncomfortable number of brushes with the caped-crusader this week.

Silence falls around them, so complete that the entire city seems muted. For the first time, it seems Batman has no reason to be there, no information to impart, no knowledge sought, no need for opinions or advice to change hands, and Gordon feels more wrong-footed now than he did the first time they met. Furtive side-long glances confirm the vigilante's presence, though the silence is so complete he almost doubts what he sees. Then Gordon blinks once, his eyes stung by the chill in the air, and he's alone again, left staring into the shadows. Shaking his head in exasperated amusement, he pushes off the wall and heads into the apartment, taking special care to check and double-check each lock before heading up to bed -- this is still Gotham after all, Batman or no. His knees complain as he climbs the stairs, the ache of winter deep in the joints, and he winces as he sinks gratefully into the comfort of his wife's arms and their warm bed.

As his thoughts dull and slide toward sleep, he realizes with fuzzy surprise how relieved he now feels, the cold knot of worry in his stomach eased by the simple, short, silent meeting outside.

.:::.

**9. Red**

With the first insinuation, a cold drop of dread slides through him, slowing his thoughts and movements until he's just staring at the Joker. The malevolent little grin the man wears is as disconcerting as the light, casual tone with which the situation is laid out and his worst nightmares are brought to life. _No_, his mind denies, _not Rachel_--

And then he doesn't think anymore.

The world turns flat and colorless as he rounds on the Joker, Gordon's frantic pounding on the door registering only distantly in the back of his mind. There's just that spiteful grin and those challenging eyes, eyes that promise and taunt, pushing him to an edge he didn't know existed. He balances on the knife-blade of his oath as his vision goes red with anger and he feels the satisfying give of bruised flesh under his hands. He's not so noble now, not above everything as Alfred had reminded him he needed to be; he's just a man, angry and afraid, with enough skills to cause unimaginable pain with minimal effort. He _is_ the monster he's made himself seem.

And then he blinks and his father's voice whispers in the back of his mind as the Joker's mocking, genuinely amused cackle fills the room and he stops in his tracks, clenching his hands into aching fists and glaring down at the madly gleeful man slumped on the floor. He finally hears his conscience under the echo of that insane laughter and it sounds like Alfred, like his father, and he realizes that this is another game, another test.

"_Some men just want to watch the world burn."_

He refuses to let the Joker win.

.:::.

**10. Drink**

Coleman Reese stares down at the glass in his hand, his hazy mind still trying to find the answers to his questions at the bottom of a glass after two hours dedicated to the task. Blinking sluggishly, he sets the glass on the table and reaches for the bottle, the last inch of amber liquid beckoning to him. The slow burn of alcohol down his throat does nothing to ease the twisted knot of confusion and guilt clenching deep in his stomach.

The TV drones on in the corner and he glances up to see the continuing reports of the day's chaos scroll across the bottom of the screen. His foggy eyes can't decipher individual words anymore, but he knows what they read; they're what drove him to seek refuge in the bottle of whiskey in the first place. _D.A. Harvey Dent Dead!_ and _Batman Suspected in Killing Spree!_ and Coleman takes another swallow as the memories surge forward.

"_Let me get this straight: You think that your client, one of the wealthiest, most powerful men in the world, is secretly a vigilante who spends his nights beating criminals to a pulp with his bare hands. And your plan is to blackmail this person?"_

"_I don't want Mr. Reese spoiling everything, but why should I have all the fun? Let's give someone else a chance. If Coleman Reese isn't dead in sixty minutes then I blow up a hospital."_

"_They're trying to kill me!" "Well, maybe Batman will save you."_

_And Bruce Wayne's dark eyes, enigmatic and calmly-collected, as he watches him from across the intersection, no warning, no threats, barely any recognition at all. And Coleman knows that Wayne knows he knows, that the easiest way to solve so many problems would have been to let Berg or some other concerned citizen blow his head off. He doesn't know what to think, though, how to handle this turn of events or any of the ones that follow after._

And his confusion and his guilt twist sourly in his gut as he drains the bottle and tries to forget.


	3. Chapter 3

Same disclaimer applies.

Wow, this is REALLY long. Much longer than I intended it to be...

_Notes:_ Dialogue comes from the movie in #11. I feel #12 is not very probable, but eh. The italicized quote in #13 is from the song _These Hard Times_ by Matchbox 20 and, truly, it was inspired by **Gibson970**'s teaser poster for a 'Batman 3' and **89g**'s pic 'THE BATMAN' on deviantART (search "Batman" and "dawn" and you should find them both). #14 was an experiment, and I don't think I quite succeeded but it was an interesting challenge _(and fun!_)_._ #15 is set between BB and TDK, and grew into something insanely long; somehow, though, I think I like it best of this set. :)

.:::.

**11. Midnight**

He glances around the squad room, taking in the chaotic blend of harried officers and shouting reporters. He frowns a little as he realizes that the kid's nowhere to be seen and every officer belonging to the precinct -- along with quite a few that didn't -- is milling around the bullpen. He hopes the conclusion he's drawing isn't the reality of the situation, but the Captain's closed office door and the reporters ruthlessly focused on it lean more toward grim reality than Jim's fervent hopes. Heaving a silent sigh, he carefully skirts the edge of the milling crowd, slipping into the silent office with as little noise as possible.

Jim just watches the kid for a second, suddenly unsure how to handle so much raw emotion in one so young. He's not sure what he expected -- tears or terror or pleas for parents recently lost -- but this stoic show of restraint certainly wasn't it. That's not to say the child isn't exhibiting any emotions; lostlonelysadguilt is rolling off the slight figure in undeniable waves but he finally decides it's the lack of tears that's most heartbreaking. He feels heavy sadness settle on his own shoulders, followed by guilt that one so young should be so weighted.

Eventually, driven by some obscure instinct, he steps over to the kid, taking in the finer details as wary eyes lock on his face. The young face is dry, though the dark eyes are red-rimmed and the child's chin trembles occasionally. His hair is somewhat tousled and his suit mildly wrinkled and slightly dirty around the knees. And he's clutching a heavy overcoat, much too large for his slight frame, as though his very life depends on it. Smiling gently, sadly, Jim sinks down to a crouch, those dark eyes watching his every move as he braces one knee on the floor and stares up into Bruce's face.

"Is this your father's?" he asks, his tone gentle and quiet as he reaches out, needing to touch the kid, to reassure him -- and himself -- in some way. It's odd, because he and Barbara had just started considering children and the idea scares the daylights out of him, but the urge to comfort is sharp and prodding, almost an ache in his chest. He scarcely touches a finger to the rich fabric of the coat and the kid flinches away, nodding hesitantly as he clutches it closer to his chest.

"It's okay." Something in Jim's chest twists and he can barely keep a soothing expression on his face, so strong is the urge to pull the boy into his arms. He settles for curling gentle hands around Bruce's elbows, feeling the muscles jump as he rubs his thumbs in comforting circles for a second. When he feels the tension fade slightly, he carefully pulls the coat out of Bruce's grasp, seeing confused panic flare bright and hard in the kid's eyes at the gesture.

"Come here," Jim murmurs, his voice pitched low as the muted scent of an expensive cologne settles into the air between them. He settles the coat on shoulders much too small for it, smoothing out the wrinkles in the collar and shoulders, his touch as gentle as his voice. "There you go."

Thin, white hands come up to grip the overcoat's lapels and Jim feels his heart break for the kid as he realizes Bruce is trying to make the familiar smell and weight of the coat into the embrace of a lost father. Without conscious thought, his hand cups the kid's cheek, a comforting touch completely new to, yet wholly characteristic of the young officer. He doesn't even notice the almost-awkwardness in his hands or the way the concrete is starting to bite into his knees; though directed at his chest, away from his face, the forlorn darkness -- such an old emotion in one so young -- in Bruce's liquid gaze is far too compelling, and what matters his discomfort anyway?

"It's okay." The words are false, empty and they both know it, but the lump in Jim's throat isn't allowing anything else and he _has_ to fix the shattered vulnerability in those dark eyes. "It's okay."

Just as he finally sees it, the end of Bruce's unnatural endurance and the start of acceptance and healing tears, a familiar heavy tread sounds through the meager privacy of the office's walls and Captain Loeb jerks open the door. Bruce blinks and the control is back, though precarious at best, and Jim feels an exhaustion deeper than he's ever known sink into his bones. From his superior's lips, his name is a reprimand and a command wrapped in two harsh syllables, implacable and undeniable if he wants to keep his job. Jim hesitates, words of comfort frozen in his mouth as he feels Loeb's stare burn into the back of his head. As he hoists himself to his feet, he dares one last glance at the kid's face; the way Bruce's warm, clear gaze dulls a little, depthless dark eyes going cold and flat as slate, will linger, hounding his thoughts and dogging his dreams.

He can't stand the crudely eager clamor in the squad room and the lack of real caring and understanding in Loeb's voice. He slides past the captain, his body language just short of insubordination, and cuts straight through the crowd, foregoing every polite instinct ingrained in himself as he shoves past scribbling reporters and weary patrolmen. His guilt and shame at abandoning the kid drive him up the dingy stairs and onto the roof, the adrenaline in the action lending violence to his actions as he pounds up the steps and slings open the door. Winter air slices through his shirt as he stares out at the city, wondering how something so lively and beautiful, so full of potential, can harbor such horrendous nightmares.

.:::.

**12. Temptation**

"Why would he do that?" she mumbles through her tears, her face buried in his shoulder as he tightens his grip around her. He clings to her as strongly as she to him, though there's a world of difference between their reasons. She's heartbroken, shell-shocked and tearful; he's trying to quell the urge to beat her ex-boyfriend into a bloody pulp and the metallic taste of his anger is keeping him from answering her question. He doesn't think she notices anyway. Carefully, he untangles one arm from their embrace and cards his shaking fingers through her hair, pulling out pins and trying for some way to soothe her upset. A sob shudders through her as his fingers reach the end of her hair and brush her shoulder and he grinds his teeth at how vulnerable she is right now.

He tucks his cheek against her head, rubbing his hands up and down her back, meaning to comfort and reassure her. There's a second motive behind his gesture, though, and as the frayed edges of her torn prom dress slide through his fingers, he feels another hot rush of anger. He's never understood the kind of mind that thinks _no_ means _yes_, but he's not looking to understand right now. Right now, he's trying to convince himself that he needs to be _here_, holding Rachel, not teaching her ex how to respect a woman.

Gradually, she falls asleep in his arms, her slight weight warm against his body. He's torn now, between staying here in case she needs him and taking the chance to avenge her. Just as he finally decides that he can't let this slide, she sighs in her sleep, shifting closer to him -- _she's as close as his own skin, under his skin, firmly embedded in his life and wrapped around his heart; _nothing_ could be closer _-- and he's trapped under the weight of her affection and trust. There's no way to escape and he doesn't want to, doesn't want to let her down or hurt her anymore than she has been.

So he holds her through the night, keeping the jerk who tried to assault her from touching her, even in her dreams.

.:::.

**13. View**

"_Morning falls like rain, into the city life, there goes another night."_

He's taking a chance, lingering up here this close to sunrise, but he finds it hard to care about the risks. In fact, he's finding it hard to care about much of anything right now, not with Harvey dead and Rachel torn from his life too soon. Not when the entire police force is more focused on putting a bullet in him than rounding up the real criminals. Not when he sees the disappointment in Lucius' eyes and the quiet concern in Alfred's.

He bites back a sigh and forces himself not to slump against the edge of the roof. He's beyond tired, nearing exhaustion at a rapid clip, but his training and his demon refuses to let him show it. _Show no weakness,_ Ducard's voice whispers in his head, and he closes his eyes, the phantom bite of the Himalayan winter air tingling under his skin at the memories. It had been so easy then, so easy to push forward in the face of adversity; exhaustion and pain had combined with satisfaction and knowledge often enough to make the lessons worthwhile. Now, he's just tired, worn down by everything the city's throwing at him.

_Know your limits._ He can see Alfred's fond gaze as he finally gives in and perches on the wall, glancing down at the dark streets fifty stories below. He wishes he could remove the cowl and feel the remnants of the night's storm against his face, cool and clean after weeks of vicious media gossip and vengeful cops with itchy trigger fingers. Fatigue is eating at the edges of his reserves but he waits it out, pushing himself to the limit. He watches the horizon, seeing the glow of dawn start to break through the spaces in the clouds and shine off the river. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly, counting carefully between inhale and exhale, turning it into meditation as the new day pushes through the clouds, sending arrows of light deep into the city streets. Two minutes pass and he opens his eyes and finds what he's been looking for.

The buildings are gilded with the light of the new dawn, washed clean by the night's storms. Flashes glisten on the river, sparking brilliantly in the lingering shadows. The tallest skyscrapers are silhouetted against the dusky, lavender sky, not imposing or menacing, but sturdy, watchful, the city's daytime sentinels. The air is crisp and fresh, tasting of dew and sunlight and hope. In short, Gotham is beautiful, simply stunning in the youthful light of a new day.

He stands, feeling his cape billow behind him, and the worst of the exhaustion and depression seem to bleed away. For the first time in a long time, he feels hopeful, once more beginning to see what Gotham could be. His darker doubts -- the ones whispering that maybe Ra's al Ghul was right -- fade into silence and a sense of purpose returns, both weaker and stronger than when he started. Because he's seen what the city can do, has seen the worst Gotham has to offer, what she hides in her streets and buildings and shadows. But he has hope again that, someday, he'll finally see her best.

He dives off the roof into a shower of sunlight, feeling it wash over him like a lover's caress as he wings for the shadows.

.:::.

**14. Music**

Excitement is hot and heavy and _such_ a _rush_ in his chest as he triggers the bombs, the sound and feel and smell of explosions behind him a drug almost as addictive as killing. He feels a grin start to spread across his face, supplementing and contorting the scars on his cheeks, and he purses his lips, relishing the delicious pull as he smothers the urge to smile. It's all so _wonderful_, the cacophony of screams and rending metal and structural collapse and the panic and chaos and unrest -- he _can't_ laugh now, not even a little, not even a gleeful smile to let some of the joy out, won't stop for a long, _long_ time if he gives in.

His symphony of demolition is ready for its finale now, one last glorious crescendo to finish off mayhem of -- heeheehaHaHA_HA_! -- explosive proportions. His hands flutter at his sides with muted energy, a mad conductor's carefully restrained grand flourish, as he heads toward a bus without looking back at the dying orchestra he chose for this event, waiting for the percussive roll to start as he moves forward with his lovely composition of chaos. The strange _lack_ of added thunder behind him distracts him and he pauses, half-turning to briefly study the blossoming glow of fading downbeats. His hands rise in mildly frustrated confusion and drop back to his sides as he shakes his head slightly. _What're ya gonna do_, he shrugs to himself, fiddling with the controller, punching the button once or twice just to hear it click, a metronome counting out an unplanned beat of silence. Such a shame to miss an entrance, but even the most seasoned musician sometimes gets lost.

The coda finally begins with a satisfying peal of percussive dissonance, all tympanic concussions and bright cymbal crashes. It's so sudden, so perfectly timed, even he jumps and adrenaline shoots through him again, ramping up his high until he's floating on success and destruction and letting it propel him forward like jet fuel. The white-hot burn is so _suh-weet_ as his mirth runs over and mad gleeful giggles spill out to fill the empty spaces of the panicked bus.

He can't wait for the reviews.

.:::.

**15. Silk**

They walk into the party and, as cameras flash and reporters yell, something about her -- her demeanor, her words to the press, the grip she has on his arm -- catches his attention and he begins to realize that she's using him. She's wearing his name, prestige, wealth, and presence at her side the same way she's wearing the silk Armani dress and diamond Rolex she chose to complement his suit -- as a way to be noticed, to be talked about, to rise through the ranks of Hollywood starlets. As he lets her tow him through the crowds to the bar, a vague discomfort with the idea starts to settle on his shoulders.

He never truly enjoys the parties he has to attend to keep up his façade, but he can't bring to mind any that have been as annoying as this one. Usually, he can make his rounds, do the whole meet-and-greet thing -- drop a silly anecdote here, forget an important city politician's name there -- then fade into the background a little and observe. Because of his date this time, though, he's mired in the middle of a swarm of gossiping social butterflies, their mindless chatter and groundless speculations battering at his affected calm, threatening to reveal how little he cares. He grits his teeth and smiles and covertly searches the room in hopes there's _some_one who can rescue him from this miasma of candy-sweet perfume and barely-sheathed cat claws. He doesn't foresee much of a rescue from this crowd, though.

A trilling laugh rises over the many mixed conversations filling the air and he's surprised to find he recognizes it. Turning slightly, he scans the room, senses on high-alert as he tries to trace the laugh. He's trying to be unobtrusive, to avoid letting on that he's bored with his date's friends, but the promise held by the source of that unique sound is too tempting. The glare he receives as he makes some excuse and wanders off lets him know _he_ won't be the one cutting tonight short, but he can't seem to find the disappointment he suspects he's supposed to feel. She _is_ beautiful, after all, and said to have certain... _talents_ -- exactly the type the tabloids love to see him with.

He couldn't care less if he tried.

Navigating carefully through the crowds of people clustered around the room, he finally manages to find the source of the carefree, honest laughter he'd heard earlier, and a small smile touches his face as he draws near. She has her back to the crowd, standing close to another man, her attention fully focused on him and, judging by the expression on the guy's face, they are more than friendly acquaintances. He hovers at the edge of the crowd, keeping his distance, suddenly unable to bring himself to make himself known.

"_Har_vey, no! It's bad enough you dragged me here. I'm _not_ going to go to dinner with you." There's no venom, no real force behind the words, and he can hear her smile in her tone.

"Tell you what, Rachel," Harvey responds calmly, digging into his pockets, "we'll flip for it. Heads, you go out with me. Tails, I leave you alone. No more invites, no more prompts, no more questions about your deepest, darkest secrets." She giggles slightly and he can only watch as Harvey's eyes gleam with mischief as he flips a silver coin with his thumb.

The shining coin tumbles through the air, but Bruce turns away before it lands, somehow knowing that, regardless of the outcome, it's only a matter of time before she gives in. Stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, he turns back the way he came, winding through the crowd to stand beside his date once more.

.:::.

A/N: Thanks to Darth KenObi-Wan for their grammar advice. I really appreciate it.


End file.
